Clothes!Picking up my backpack, I wander upstairs to my bedroom and check out the

walk-in closet. It’s still full of clothes—all brand new with price tags still attached. Three

long evening dresses, three cocktail dresses, and three more for everyday wear. All this

must have cost a fortune.

I check the tag on one of the evening dresses: $2,998. Holy fuck.I sink to the floor.

This isn’t me. I put my head in my hands and try to process the last few hours. It’s

exhausting. Why, oh why have I fallen for someone who is plain crazy—beautiful, sexy as

fuck, richer than Croesus, and crazy with a capital K?

I fish my Blackberry out of my backpack and call my mom.

“Ana, honey! It’s been so long. How are you, darling?”

“Oh, you know . . .”

“What’s wrong? Still not worked it out with Christian?”

“Mom, it’s complicated. I think he’s nuts. That’s the problem.”

“Tell me about it. Men, there’s just no reading them sometimes. Bob’s wondering if our

move to Georgia was a good one.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he’s talking about going back to Vegas.”

Oh, someone else has problems. I’m not the only one.

Christian appears in the doorway. “There you are. I thought you’d run off.” His relief

is obvious.

I hold my hand up to indicate that I’m on the phone. “Sorry, Mom, I have to go. I’ll

call again soon.”

“Okay, honey—take care of yourself. Love you!”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

I hang up and gaze at Fifty. He frowns, looking strangely awkward.

“Why are you hiding in here?” he asks.

“I’m not hiding. I’m despairing.”

“Despairing?”

“Of all this, Christian.” I wave my hand in the general direction of the clothes.

“Can I come in?”

“It’s your closet.”

He frowns again and sits down, cross-legged, facing me.

“They’re just clothes. If you don’t like them I’ll send them back.”

“You’re a lot to take on, you know?”

He blinks at me and scratches his chin . . . his stubbly chin. My fingers itch to touch

him.“I know. I’m trying,” he murmurs.

“You’re very trying.”

“As are you, Miss Steele.”

“Why are you doing this?”

His eyes widen and his wary look returns. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You are one frustrating female.”

“You could have a nice brunette submissive. One who’d say, ‘how high?’ every time

you said jump, provided of course she had permission to speak. So why me, Christian? I

just don’t get it.”

He gazes at me for a moment, and I have no idea what he’s thinking.

“You make me look at the world differently, Anastasia. You don’t want me for my

money. You give me . . . hope,” he says softly.

What? Mr. Cryptic is back. “Hope of what?”

He shrugs. “More.” His voice is low and quiet. “And you’re right. I am used to women

doing exactly what I say, when I say, doing exactly what I want. It gets old quickly. There’s

something about you, Anastasia, that calls to me on some deep level I don’t understand.

It’s a siren’s call. I can’t resist you, and I don’t want to lose you.” He reaches forward and

takes my hand. “Don’t run, please—have a little faith in me and a little patience. Please.”

He looks so vulnerable . . . Jeez, it’s disturbing.Leaning up on my knees, I bend for-

ward and kiss him gently on his lips.

“Okay. Faith and patience, I can live with that.”

“Good. Because Franco’s here.”

Franco is small, dark, and gay. I love him.

“Such beautiful hair!” he gushes with an outrageous, probably fake Italian accent. I bet

he’s from Baltimore or somewhere, but his enthusiasm is infectious. Christian leads us both

into his bathroom, exits hurriedly, and reenters carrying a chair from his room.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” he mutters.

“ Grazie, Mr. Grey.” Franco turns to me. “ Bene, Anastasia, what shall we do with you?”

Christian is sitting on his couch, plowing through what look like spreadsheets. Soft, mel-

low classical music drifts through the great room. A woman sings passionately, pouring her

soul into the song. It’s breathtaking. Christian glances up and smiles, distracting me from

the music.

“See! I tell you he like it,” Franco enthuses.

“You look lovely, Ana,” Christian says appreciatively.

“My work ‘ere is done,” Franco exclaims.

Christian rises and strolls toward us. “Thank you, Franco.”

Franco turns, grasps me in an overwhelming bear hug, and kisses both my cheeks.

“Never let anyone else be cutting your hair, bellissimaAnastasia!”

I laugh, slightly embarrassed by his familiarity. Christian shows him to the foyer door

and returns moments later.

“I’m glad you kept it long,” he says as he walks toward me, his eyes bright. He takes

a strand between his fingers.

“So soft,” he murmurs, gazing down at me. “Are you still mad at me?”

I nod and he smiles.

“What precisely are you mad at me about?”

I roll my eyes. “You want the list?”

“There’s a list?”

“A long one.”

“Can we discuss it in bed?”

“No.” I pout at him childishly.

“Over lunch, then. I’m hungry, and not just for food,” he gives me a salacious smile.

“I am not going to let you dazzle me with your sexpertise.”

He stifles a smile. “What is bothering you specifically, Miss Steele? Spit it out.”

Okay.

“What’s bothering me? Well, there’s your gross invasion of my privacy, the fact that

you took me to some place where your ex-mistress works and you used to take all your lov-

ers to have their bits waxed, you manhandled me in the street like I was six years old—and

to cap it all, you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!” My voice has risen to a crescendo.

He raises his eyebrows, and his good humor vanishes.

“That’s quite a list. But just to clarify once more—she’s not myMrs. Robinson.”

“She can touch you,” I repeat.

He purses his lips. “She knows where.”

“What does that mean?”

He runs both hands through his hair and closes his eyes briefly, as if he’s seeking divine

guidance of some kind. He swallows.

“You and I don’t have any rules. I have never had a relationship without rules, and I

never know where you’re going to touch me. It makes me nervous. Your touch complete-

ly—” He stops, searching for the words. “It just means more . . . so much more”

More?His answer’s completely unexpected, throwing me, and there’s that little word

with the big meaning hanging between us again.

My touch means . . . more. Holy cow.How am I supposed to resist when he says this

stuff? Gray eyes search mine, watching, apprehensive.

Tentatively I reach out and apprehension shifts to alarm. Christian steps back and I

drop my hand.

“Hard limit,” he whispers urgently, a pained, panicked look on his face.

I can’t help but feel a crushing disappointment. “How would you feel if you couldn’t

touch me?”

“Devastated and deprived,” he says immediately.

Oh, my Fifty Shades.Shaking my head, I offer him a small, reassuring smile and he

relaxes.

“You’ll have to tell me exactly why this is a hard limit, one day, please.”

“One day,” he murmurs and seems to snap out of his vulnerability in a nanosecond.

How can he switch so quickly? He’s the most capricious person I know.

“So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy.” His mouth twists as he contemplates

this. “Because I know your bank account number?”

“Yes, that’s outrageous.”

“I do background checks on all my submissives. I’ll show you.” He turns and heads

for his study.

I dutifully follow him, dazed. From a locked filing cabinet, he pulls a manila folder.